I remember first hearing Master Sheng Yen's remark, "In broadly sowing the fields of merit, why fear any hardship or rebuke?" At the time I first heard this sentence, I had to admit a certain fear. The fear I had was that trying to do good things for others puts me at a risk for rejection or even criticism, especially by those whose standards or goals are different from mine. For instance, I may want to help others through a certain kind of volunteer job or initiative, only to find that the person does not want this kind of help that I offer. The person might even reject my help, believing that it is doing more harm to that person or others, even when my intention is to benefit others. I suppose the good example of this situation is when a person sincerely wants to become a physician to heal the sick, only to later find that she or he lacks the qualifications or mindset to do so. Of course, the example is quite extreme, but it suffices to ask the point: how to overcome the fear of rebuke or criticism, even when one is doing one's sincere best?
Part the answer to this question likely lies in the term 'broadly sowing'. I think it implies that giving is done without particular attachment to very specific relationships or outcomes. I have lately been practicing mindfulness of what my real intention is when performing an act of volunteering or giving of my time and companionship. To sincerely give to others, I found I have needed to simply let go of preconceived notions of how it should go or who I 'should' be, even risking showing my rough spots and ignorance on many things. Sometimes, in certain areas, I have only a contrite heart to give, especially if there are some areas where I am lacking in skill and knowledge. I tell myself: I don't know enough about this subject or situation to help in a meaningful way, but I will try to learn anyway. Even if I don't learn a lot or still show ignorance, at least being present can be helpful for someone else to work out their own ideas on a topic.
When I had been living in my old place on Bathurst and Sheppard, my neighbor upstairs would sometimes sound out his ideas while I could only politely listen, not knowing too much about his specific difficulties in health and marriage. Finally, he would get up and say 'thank you for giving me that idea'-when in fact it was he who came up with the idea in the first place, not me! But I still felt his gratitude in recognizing that I had played a minor role in helping him formulate his ideas. You can see that sometimes having a listening presence and an open ear can be a gift to someone else, as well as contribute to the thought energy of a dialogue.
But when it comes to dealing with inevitable rejection and criticism, what do Buddhist teachings in particular offer? Part of what helps is to know that criticism is a natural part of the process of being with others. For example, even if I feel that I am doing something truly well, this is only my conditioned thinking that deems it that way. Others will have their own conditioned thinking based on their own experiences and even moods. Because I am simply not able to anticipate or even control how others might respond to ideas or help, the best I can do is focus on the quality and thoroughness of what I do. But I should not expect to receive only positive reinforcement, as human beings are always unpredictable and subject to endless conditioning of their own.
Another key aspect in Buddhist teachings is that the self and its views are constantly changing. On this subject, Dzigar Kontrul Rinpoche remarks in Uncommon Happiness, "Emotional pain is feeling hurt. If you really look at who is hurt, nobody is hurt, since there is no self to hurt! It is only the mind that has gotten into this place where it feels hurt." (p.65). By contemplating that there is no 'self' having emotional pain, I can see that all the thoughts are temporary, and I am not so desperate to throw off the pain I feel through criticism or rejection. Hence, "When we realize there is no one to be hurt, only the mind imagining it is hurt, then the desperation is diffused, as it is recognized to be pointless. Everything passes; this feeling of hurt will also pass." (ibid)
What I experience from this point is that, as long as I don't cherish a self that is the brunt of suffering, I create a freedom to let the pain surface in me and dissipate on its own. If I know that the pain comes from the interdependent arising of conditions acting on a sense of self, I also am freed up to observe it and let it go on its own time. I don't need to rush the pain to go away, only observe my habitual defensiveness of shutting down in relation to that pain. I can see that this 'self' is only a mental projection of who I think is offended by the criticism. But that self I am seeing is not truly awareness or truly that which is aware. So there is no need for me to exacerbate the pain by telling myself "I am stupid" or "I am hopeless". There just isn't any need to add this layer of "I am" to what is arising in mind.
When I am fully accepting that there is no fixed and permanent self, I am no longer locked into shame or embarrassment whenever someone exposes a mistake I made. In fact, there isn't a coherent self who makes the mistake in isolation. That mistake is compounded from previous experiences, bodily conditions, habitual thinking, assumptions, education, and so on. Why would I need to blame it on the 'self' that isn't a static self to begin with? Paradoxically, this insight gives me room to take more responsibility, because I am not fixating on this imaginary 'self' that is supposedly the source of all evil. I am no longer locked in a sense of hopelessness. I can resolve to change certain things or correct certain behaviors, without the added sense of 'shame' around being the sole and permanent agent of the actions.
Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche (2009), Uncommon Happiness: The Path of the Compassionate Warrior.. Hong Kong: Rangjung Yeshe Publications
Thursday, January 7, 2016
Wednesday, January 6, 2016
Planting a Seed
One of the ironies about new year's resolutions I found is that the more a person tries to resolve to do something good, the more it tends to backfire in some way or another. For example, witness the numbers of 'resolutions' that people make around the time of new years. I think there are many theories out there to explain why this effort 'backfires'. For example, according to Jungian psychology, it has to do with the fact that human beings have shadow selves, and these 'selves' tend to get in the way of a person's good intentions, even reversing the intentions altogether. Others simply impute it to 'lack of will power' that people find it hard to stick to resolutions.
From my own perspective, I think that resolutions tend to fail because they are built around a faulty view of how human beings operate. A person has an idea arising in mind, then labels it as a 'good' idea, and then tries to use that idea to inspire their decision to break a bad habit or curb some characteristic. What isn't recognized is that ideas are only singular, and they only make up one of many conditions for something to arise. I might think I would be better off to do one thing. But when a different thought emerges, I find that the first thought does not have too much power over the second. They are two unrelated thoughts. The same is pretty much the case with all thoughts, for that matter. But , then how do thoughts form into new habits?
The problem even with the habit view is that it assumes there is something substantial, solid and real that is 'forming' the habit and 'solidifying' it for the future. In fact, it is nearly impossible to have a habit that uniformly applies to all situations. I can make the habit not to open the refrigerator when I crave chocolate, but this same 'habit' won't help me if I am seeing a chocolate bar in the store. It takes continual reflection to be able to adapt new thoughts to new situations, and it's unlikely that a single habitual thought is going to cover all situations.
A different approach is to perhaps realize that all thoughts are impermanent, and they exist among many possibilities. If I take this approach, there is more room to make different choices, have new thoughts or even not respond to existing thoughts. I think of this almost like improvisation. When I first learned how to 'improvise' with the trumpet in high school, the teacher had told us that there is no 'right or wrong' note, and one can simply play according to one's feeling of what note is needed in the moment. At first, I was still afraid of hitting the wrong note or making a mistake. But when I learned that playing (or not playing) wasn't devastating for me, I could relax into the process of playing/not playing, and the experience was more fulfilling than reading off a sheet.
Similarly, if I wish to do something, it is sometimes best not to threaten or punish myself if I don't 'fall through' on the thought or promise. Instead, I practice beholding that thought as existing among many thoughts. I entertain the possibility that there are multiple, often conflicting, inclinations within me, and try not to prefer one over the other. When I do this, I think of the new thought as 'planting a seed'. If the new thought seems wholesome and productive to me, I can gently water the thought by elaborating on it, improvising on it, and planning around it, while giving less emphasis on unproductive thoughts. In this way, I develop an interest in inclining in a certain direction, rather than pushing a particular thought. Over time, if I treat my experience with full awareness and care, I can find that my actions coalesce around the things that feel most wholesome and harmonious to me. Rather than bullying myself into 'championing' one way of being, I use a gentle approach of planting certain thoughts in order to influence myself in the directions to which I most want to turn. In this way, whatever I do isn't associated with critical self-damning or impossible standards and goals.
Could this approach be more conducive to health and well-being? I am not going to say either yes or no, since even this idea is subject to the conditions that are unique to one's situation. However, it wouldn't be a bad thing to try this approach for a while, and see how it works.
From my own perspective, I think that resolutions tend to fail because they are built around a faulty view of how human beings operate. A person has an idea arising in mind, then labels it as a 'good' idea, and then tries to use that idea to inspire their decision to break a bad habit or curb some characteristic. What isn't recognized is that ideas are only singular, and they only make up one of many conditions for something to arise. I might think I would be better off to do one thing. But when a different thought emerges, I find that the first thought does not have too much power over the second. They are two unrelated thoughts. The same is pretty much the case with all thoughts, for that matter. But , then how do thoughts form into new habits?
The problem even with the habit view is that it assumes there is something substantial, solid and real that is 'forming' the habit and 'solidifying' it for the future. In fact, it is nearly impossible to have a habit that uniformly applies to all situations. I can make the habit not to open the refrigerator when I crave chocolate, but this same 'habit' won't help me if I am seeing a chocolate bar in the store. It takes continual reflection to be able to adapt new thoughts to new situations, and it's unlikely that a single habitual thought is going to cover all situations.
A different approach is to perhaps realize that all thoughts are impermanent, and they exist among many possibilities. If I take this approach, there is more room to make different choices, have new thoughts or even not respond to existing thoughts. I think of this almost like improvisation. When I first learned how to 'improvise' with the trumpet in high school, the teacher had told us that there is no 'right or wrong' note, and one can simply play according to one's feeling of what note is needed in the moment. At first, I was still afraid of hitting the wrong note or making a mistake. But when I learned that playing (or not playing) wasn't devastating for me, I could relax into the process of playing/not playing, and the experience was more fulfilling than reading off a sheet.
Similarly, if I wish to do something, it is sometimes best not to threaten or punish myself if I don't 'fall through' on the thought or promise. Instead, I practice beholding that thought as existing among many thoughts. I entertain the possibility that there are multiple, often conflicting, inclinations within me, and try not to prefer one over the other. When I do this, I think of the new thought as 'planting a seed'. If the new thought seems wholesome and productive to me, I can gently water the thought by elaborating on it, improvising on it, and planning around it, while giving less emphasis on unproductive thoughts. In this way, I develop an interest in inclining in a certain direction, rather than pushing a particular thought. Over time, if I treat my experience with full awareness and care, I can find that my actions coalesce around the things that feel most wholesome and harmonious to me. Rather than bullying myself into 'championing' one way of being, I use a gentle approach of planting certain thoughts in order to influence myself in the directions to which I most want to turn. In this way, whatever I do isn't associated with critical self-damning or impossible standards and goals.
Could this approach be more conducive to health and well-being? I am not going to say either yes or no, since even this idea is subject to the conditions that are unique to one's situation. However, it wouldn't be a bad thing to try this approach for a while, and see how it works.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
The Logic of Cherishing
I sometimes wonder what is the most effective way to practice and learn respect for all living beings. In his commentary on Shantideva's teachings, Uncommon Happiness: Way of the Compassionate Warrior, Dzigar Kongstrul Rinpoche recommends a practice of rejoicing in the happiness of other beings (mudita) as well as wanting others to be free of suffering. Interestingly, Rinpoche refers to the 'logic' of cherishing others when he remarks:
"Our tendency to cherish the self, protect the self, and be exclusively focused on the self can be changed with a simple and effective method. We remove our self as the focus of cherishing and protection, and replace the self with others. When we do this, we're not getting rid of cherishing. We're not getting rid of protecting--just changing the focus from our self and putting others first. The new cherishing is developed through logic and reasoning." (p.11)
Reading this passage of Rinpoche's book, I begin to wonder, is logic and reason powerful enough to shift the center away from one's self and toward others? One of the more interesting aspects of this argument is that the feelings of cherishing and protecting don't go away if I shift away from a self-focus. Instead, these habits of mind simply shift in orientation by fanning outward toward all beings. Rinpoche's argument is built on the faith that we can learn to cherish others as long as we have a basic ability to cherish our own bodies. Hence, Rinpoche remarks:
"This can be reasoned from cause and from effect. Just as we desire happiness, so does everyone else. Just as we desire freedom from suffering, so does everyone else--so why discriminate? The logic here is to make everyone who desires happiness important, everyone who desires freedom from suffering important, and therefore put everyone in the center of our cherishing and protecting." (p.12)
Rinpoche's argument interests me, because it contrasts with certain Western philosophic presentations I have read related to 'cherishing others'. Some philosophers, such as Kant and the deontologists, tend to see morals as a question of what is most reasonable from a disinterested, duty-bound perspective. Rather than including emotions, Kant tends to downplay the role of emotions in cherishing human (typically rational) beings as something that is 'empirical' and therefore not subject to reason. For Kant, it is by virtue of being a rational being that human beings should be treated as ends, not as means. A reasonable being, under this view, would not be swayed by emotions into accepting the principle of what a human being is.
Rinpoche takes a different approach in his discussion of Shantideva's Buddhism. Rather than focusing purely on what's right, he focuses on what orientation is most conducive to human happiness. If my orientation is centered only on cherishing one being (namely, my own), I will suffer anger, greed, jealousy, and other vexations in wanting to protect 'this body.'. But if I expand my orientation to cherishing all beings, there is simply no need to develop grasping and vexations. It is not that I have stopped protecting, cherishing or even loving. It is more that I have shifted to love all beings. I don't need to throw away my feelings of love or respect, only transmute and expand such emotions so that they don't create situations of anger and greed.
Rinpoche (and Shantideva's) instructions admittedly take a lot of time and cultivation. It isn't easy, and can sometimes be hard to stay motivated. One way that I find helpful is to remind myself that the beings I see around me are in a single totality. They are simply not separate beings. But it is most important to give all beings space to be what they are. For example, if I expect myself to always have only kind of emotion (such as cherishing or protecting others), I often feel distanced from that view and pressured to change how I feel to suit that emotion. A different way would be to cherish whatever is happening in the moment, rather than projecting onto that moment an ideal.
Even in fictional literature, I find examples of writers who grapple with what it means to truly cherish life. In W. Somerset Maugham's short story, "The Back of Beyond", he writes about a very devoted husband who finds out that his wife had been having an affair with one of his best friends. The man complains of his wife's 'ingratitude' toward him. The main character, George, tries to reconcile the man to his wife by telling him not to expect gratitude from others, but simply "do good because it gives you pleasure." (p.85) I think it's important that no matter what, practitioners find an intrinsic enjoyment in doing some kind of giving. If it's not enjoyable, it becomes ungratifying and can lead to a sense of wanting or needing thanks from others. And I think one thing most important is to develop a curiosity: something that "takes human nature as you find it" (p.87) rather than trying to fit human nature into a romantic ideal of what it should look like. .
Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche (2009), uncommon happiness: The Path of the Compassionate Warrior.. Hong Kong: Rangjung Yeshe Publications
Maugham, W. Somerset (1961), Collected Short Stories, Volume 4. London: Pan Books
"Our tendency to cherish the self, protect the self, and be exclusively focused on the self can be changed with a simple and effective method. We remove our self as the focus of cherishing and protection, and replace the self with others. When we do this, we're not getting rid of cherishing. We're not getting rid of protecting--just changing the focus from our self and putting others first. The new cherishing is developed through logic and reasoning." (p.11)
Reading this passage of Rinpoche's book, I begin to wonder, is logic and reason powerful enough to shift the center away from one's self and toward others? One of the more interesting aspects of this argument is that the feelings of cherishing and protecting don't go away if I shift away from a self-focus. Instead, these habits of mind simply shift in orientation by fanning outward toward all beings. Rinpoche's argument is built on the faith that we can learn to cherish others as long as we have a basic ability to cherish our own bodies. Hence, Rinpoche remarks:
"This can be reasoned from cause and from effect. Just as we desire happiness, so does everyone else. Just as we desire freedom from suffering, so does everyone else--so why discriminate? The logic here is to make everyone who desires happiness important, everyone who desires freedom from suffering important, and therefore put everyone in the center of our cherishing and protecting." (p.12)
Rinpoche's argument interests me, because it contrasts with certain Western philosophic presentations I have read related to 'cherishing others'. Some philosophers, such as Kant and the deontologists, tend to see morals as a question of what is most reasonable from a disinterested, duty-bound perspective. Rather than including emotions, Kant tends to downplay the role of emotions in cherishing human (typically rational) beings as something that is 'empirical' and therefore not subject to reason. For Kant, it is by virtue of being a rational being that human beings should be treated as ends, not as means. A reasonable being, under this view, would not be swayed by emotions into accepting the principle of what a human being is.
Rinpoche takes a different approach in his discussion of Shantideva's Buddhism. Rather than focusing purely on what's right, he focuses on what orientation is most conducive to human happiness. If my orientation is centered only on cherishing one being (namely, my own), I will suffer anger, greed, jealousy, and other vexations in wanting to protect 'this body.'. But if I expand my orientation to cherishing all beings, there is simply no need to develop grasping and vexations. It is not that I have stopped protecting, cherishing or even loving. It is more that I have shifted to love all beings. I don't need to throw away my feelings of love or respect, only transmute and expand such emotions so that they don't create situations of anger and greed.
Rinpoche (and Shantideva's) instructions admittedly take a lot of time and cultivation. It isn't easy, and can sometimes be hard to stay motivated. One way that I find helpful is to remind myself that the beings I see around me are in a single totality. They are simply not separate beings. But it is most important to give all beings space to be what they are. For example, if I expect myself to always have only kind of emotion (such as cherishing or protecting others), I often feel distanced from that view and pressured to change how I feel to suit that emotion. A different way would be to cherish whatever is happening in the moment, rather than projecting onto that moment an ideal.
Even in fictional literature, I find examples of writers who grapple with what it means to truly cherish life. In W. Somerset Maugham's short story, "The Back of Beyond", he writes about a very devoted husband who finds out that his wife had been having an affair with one of his best friends. The man complains of his wife's 'ingratitude' toward him. The main character, George, tries to reconcile the man to his wife by telling him not to expect gratitude from others, but simply "do good because it gives you pleasure." (p.85) I think it's important that no matter what, practitioners find an intrinsic enjoyment in doing some kind of giving. If it's not enjoyable, it becomes ungratifying and can lead to a sense of wanting or needing thanks from others. And I think one thing most important is to develop a curiosity: something that "takes human nature as you find it" (p.87) rather than trying to fit human nature into a romantic ideal of what it should look like. .
Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche (2009), uncommon happiness: The Path of the Compassionate Warrior.. Hong Kong: Rangjung Yeshe Publications
Maugham, W. Somerset (1961), Collected Short Stories, Volume 4. London: Pan Books
Monday, January 4, 2016
Reflecting on Conditioned Arising
This morning, it was cold and icy outside. I recited a merit transfer prayer to calm my mind. I headed toward the subway station to an early meeting, and saw a crowd of people inside the subway station, all going in different directions. Something today felt a bit dreary: in some ways, I think there wasn't too much to look forward to. It was just another day to get through.
I found that absolutely the most effective way to deal with this heavy feeling is to reflect on the conditioned nature of events. This kind of reflection I found to be effective for me today, because it lifted the sense of heaviness that I was feeling about my situation. One Tibetan Buddhist monastic, Dzigar Kongstrul Rinpoche, describes such a reflection as follows:
With regard to the mind in general, there are perceptions, feelings, thoughts, and consciousness. There are many different aspects to the mind. All of these continuously rise and cease. If you look closely, there's nothing in the body, speech, or mind that is a singular thing existing intrinsically, by itself, without causes and conditions. Because everything exists due to causes and conditions, they are changing as they arise, remain, and cease. (p.101)
Now, why is it reassuring to know that things are conditioned rather than being 'intrinsically' existing? I think that this teaching reminds me that nothing ever lasts or stays the same from one moment to the next. Even if a person says "I am at the last gasp of life", that feeling is also going to pass over time. There just isn't any core feeling or state of being that a person can call one's own forever. Things are situated in contexts. And I think that an analytic approach toward these layers of contexts can be helpful in overcoming a burdensome emotion, such as a loss of general meaning or enthusiasm.
To take one example: a person might say that they are in an impossible situation in a relationship or at work, from which they cannot emerge. But upon looking at this 'impossible' situation, it is really the sum of conditions coming together: the weather, the time of year, a particularly peak period in work, physical exhaustion, or maybe a distressing emotion that arises. Looking at these conditions coming together, it's no accident that the result might be an overloaded feeling in that moment: it is the sum of many interlocking conditions. But the more I look into it, the less I see that the conditions are meant to remain in that same configuration for very long. Weather changes, work fluctuates in volume, I recuperate my strength through rest or solitude; a distressing emotion turns to curiosity. In all of that situation, I can see where there is a sense of' 'thickness' in unfavorable moments. But even without doing anything special to lift the veil of thickness, something in that thickness passes.
I think it's helpful to know that there is a conditioned arising to every occurrence, because this awareness lightens the burden of having to shoulder so much. I tend to attribute a mood or a feeling to a discrete sense of self: this is 'how I am', when actually, it is only a feeling arising in mind from prior conditions. Knowing that the mood is conditioned allows me to see the conditions with less vexation and with an attitude of: what can I improve, and what just needs patience? Even if I am unable to answer these questions, seeing the situation as conditioned allows me to feel less overwhelmed and more able to see dynamic movement in the conditions. In the end, it is to see that there isn't a self attached to them.
Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche (2009), uncommon happiness: The Path of the Compassionate Warrior.. Hong Kong: Rangjung Yeshe Publications
I found that absolutely the most effective way to deal with this heavy feeling is to reflect on the conditioned nature of events. This kind of reflection I found to be effective for me today, because it lifted the sense of heaviness that I was feeling about my situation. One Tibetan Buddhist monastic, Dzigar Kongstrul Rinpoche, describes such a reflection as follows:
With regard to the mind in general, there are perceptions, feelings, thoughts, and consciousness. There are many different aspects to the mind. All of these continuously rise and cease. If you look closely, there's nothing in the body, speech, or mind that is a singular thing existing intrinsically, by itself, without causes and conditions. Because everything exists due to causes and conditions, they are changing as they arise, remain, and cease. (p.101)
Now, why is it reassuring to know that things are conditioned rather than being 'intrinsically' existing? I think that this teaching reminds me that nothing ever lasts or stays the same from one moment to the next. Even if a person says "I am at the last gasp of life", that feeling is also going to pass over time. There just isn't any core feeling or state of being that a person can call one's own forever. Things are situated in contexts. And I think that an analytic approach toward these layers of contexts can be helpful in overcoming a burdensome emotion, such as a loss of general meaning or enthusiasm.
To take one example: a person might say that they are in an impossible situation in a relationship or at work, from which they cannot emerge. But upon looking at this 'impossible' situation, it is really the sum of conditions coming together: the weather, the time of year, a particularly peak period in work, physical exhaustion, or maybe a distressing emotion that arises. Looking at these conditions coming together, it's no accident that the result might be an overloaded feeling in that moment: it is the sum of many interlocking conditions. But the more I look into it, the less I see that the conditions are meant to remain in that same configuration for very long. Weather changes, work fluctuates in volume, I recuperate my strength through rest or solitude; a distressing emotion turns to curiosity. In all of that situation, I can see where there is a sense of' 'thickness' in unfavorable moments. But even without doing anything special to lift the veil of thickness, something in that thickness passes.
I think it's helpful to know that there is a conditioned arising to every occurrence, because this awareness lightens the burden of having to shoulder so much. I tend to attribute a mood or a feeling to a discrete sense of self: this is 'how I am', when actually, it is only a feeling arising in mind from prior conditions. Knowing that the mood is conditioned allows me to see the conditions with less vexation and with an attitude of: what can I improve, and what just needs patience? Even if I am unable to answer these questions, seeing the situation as conditioned allows me to feel less overwhelmed and more able to see dynamic movement in the conditions. In the end, it is to see that there isn't a self attached to them.
Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche (2009), uncommon happiness: The Path of the Compassionate Warrior.. Hong Kong: Rangjung Yeshe Publications
Sunday, January 3, 2016
Looking for Solutions
I finally have a chance to go into the local "Solutions" store, in the hopes of finding some storage bins for packing my things. Little do I realize that the store turns out to be entirely 'about' storage. I find a wide assortment of different styles, patterns, sizes and colors to meet the needs of keeping all my things in one place. Yet, oddly enough, I am unable to locate the bins that fold and can easily be unfolded into carrying crates. It doesn't take long before I am bewildered by the selection of sizes and a little bit unsure as to which to buy...as well as which is needed. I finally opt for a medium sized white box with a convenient lid, and a rather affordable price. And I tell myself that if one is not enough, I can always come back for the next batch. After all, I doubt that the "Solutions" store will run out of storage items anytime soon. I also begin to feel the usual combination of confusion and slight nausea that besets me in larger department stores: too many choices for an item which has a similar function.
As I walk home with purchase bagged and splayed between my outstretched thumb and index finger, I begin to reflect on how much of what this store sells is a mass-production version of what people used to collect in the past. What was once the makeshift milk-carton LP container is now a remodelled plastic one which looks much the same, but sells for $20-$40, depending on one's preferred size and style. It seems that retailers such as "Solutions" are manufacturing the kinds of inventive 'one-time' solutions people used to devise on their own to store their things. Old shoe boxes suddenly get resurrected into plastic, durable 'make-up' boxes. The tattered and half-collapsed box for the Christmas tree is now a transparent, coffin-sized Rubbermaid with clip-on lid and spiffy "new car" smell to boot. What used to be 'makeshift' and 'expedient' is now convenient and 'buy-able', not to mention matching with one's other décor.
I often wonder why I sometimes feel this kind of 'numbness' (bordering on a headache) when I go to large stores with huge selections of disposable items. I think that perhaps it has to do with the relationship (or lack thereof) I have with material things. Sometimes, one's relationship with the material world is negotiated through invention. I recall the day when I moved to a semi-furnished apartment on Rogers Road years ago, and found out that I didn't have a desk on which to put my computer. (The year was 2002, and I didn't have a laptop at the time). Instead of going out and buying a new desk or ordering one from a catalogue, I decided to take a dresser that had no doors on it and make it into 'my desk'. Actually, it was quite easy. Because the doors had already been taken off the dresser and it was lying in the vestibule area of the apartment, it was just a matter of moving that hunk of furniture into the kitchen area. I used the 'no doors' part for my desktop and papers, while the surface held my monitor and keyboard. What I did with the dresser and where I placed it automatically converted it into a desk. And at that moment, I started to see the dresser/desk as a kind of 'invisible ally', helping me to feel more 'at home' in my new place.
Had I bought a new desk from a retailer, perhaps I would never had felt so connected with the item, since in that case, it would have already been designed for the purpose of writing. Converting a dresser into a desk gave rise to a sense of gratitude and relief. It felt like the dresser was granting me a kind of empowerment to make it into what I needed it to be.
So much of what is sold on markets these days is ready-made and tailor-made for users. While it's convenient and much appreciated, I wonder if too much convenience can lead to a sense of disconnection with the things around us. It is as though too much choice in what to buy and what 'fits' best can lead to a feeling of uncertainty. What I can conclude is that how I feel about material things depends more on my relationship to them than on the things themselves.
As I walk home with purchase bagged and splayed between my outstretched thumb and index finger, I begin to reflect on how much of what this store sells is a mass-production version of what people used to collect in the past. What was once the makeshift milk-carton LP container is now a remodelled plastic one which looks much the same, but sells for $20-$40, depending on one's preferred size and style. It seems that retailers such as "Solutions" are manufacturing the kinds of inventive 'one-time' solutions people used to devise on their own to store their things. Old shoe boxes suddenly get resurrected into plastic, durable 'make-up' boxes. The tattered and half-collapsed box for the Christmas tree is now a transparent, coffin-sized Rubbermaid with clip-on lid and spiffy "new car" smell to boot. What used to be 'makeshift' and 'expedient' is now convenient and 'buy-able', not to mention matching with one's other décor.
I often wonder why I sometimes feel this kind of 'numbness' (bordering on a headache) when I go to large stores with huge selections of disposable items. I think that perhaps it has to do with the relationship (or lack thereof) I have with material things. Sometimes, one's relationship with the material world is negotiated through invention. I recall the day when I moved to a semi-furnished apartment on Rogers Road years ago, and found out that I didn't have a desk on which to put my computer. (The year was 2002, and I didn't have a laptop at the time). Instead of going out and buying a new desk or ordering one from a catalogue, I decided to take a dresser that had no doors on it and make it into 'my desk'. Actually, it was quite easy. Because the doors had already been taken off the dresser and it was lying in the vestibule area of the apartment, it was just a matter of moving that hunk of furniture into the kitchen area. I used the 'no doors' part for my desktop and papers, while the surface held my monitor and keyboard. What I did with the dresser and where I placed it automatically converted it into a desk. And at that moment, I started to see the dresser/desk as a kind of 'invisible ally', helping me to feel more 'at home' in my new place.
Had I bought a new desk from a retailer, perhaps I would never had felt so connected with the item, since in that case, it would have already been designed for the purpose of writing. Converting a dresser into a desk gave rise to a sense of gratitude and relief. It felt like the dresser was granting me a kind of empowerment to make it into what I needed it to be.
So much of what is sold on markets these days is ready-made and tailor-made for users. While it's convenient and much appreciated, I wonder if too much convenience can lead to a sense of disconnection with the things around us. It is as though too much choice in what to buy and what 'fits' best can lead to a feeling of uncertainty. What I can conclude is that how I feel about material things depends more on my relationship to them than on the things themselves.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Ideal and Real
In the short story, "French Joe", W. Somerset Maugham writes about a soldier who joins the French army against the Russians in the 1800s, and survives a great many wars, even battling adversity in the process. He represents a kind of typical war hero, as we are entreated to the description, "He showed me a scar on his bald pate from an Uhlan's lance and then with a dramatic gesture told how he had thrust his sword in the Uhlan's body with such violence that he could not withdraw it." (p.45). Yet, no sooner does this description arise do we read that "the Empire perished and he joined the communists". (ibid) Our hero journeys through many misfortunes, many battles, until he reaches a ripe old age. When the narrator remarks that he must have lived a fine life, Joe remarks, "I have had a frightful life. Misfortune has followed me wherever I turned my steps" (p.47) What seems like a heroic quest turns out to be suffering for Joe.
Maugham's story, for me, represents the stark contrast between the 'exploits' of war that is often historically depicted, and the realities of hardship and suffering that really unfold for the central character. It also represents the transient, unreal nature of war: as sides switch, so do Joe's allegiances. I see a character trying to survive between conflicting sides. In the end, Joe expresses a wish to die, only to add that he would be grateful for a pack of cigarettes. The story for me is a commentary on how life itself can become disposable under the ravages of imprisonment, war, sickness and ageing.
As I read this story, my contemplation was around the way really felt experiences are often sacrificed for the image of what they are presumably supposed to look and feel like. For example, a person might show a scar to represent what had been inflicted upon them years ago, and yet forget how the pain really felt in that moment. Rather than directly recalling or apprehending how the pain truly felt, the scar becomes a symbol for strength or courage. Yet, in the process, the suffering itself often becomes muted or even denied. Death itself becomes transmuted into a national ideal: to kill or to die for glory becomes an idealized life, with little regard for the suffering it entails for all beings. Joe becomes a kind of anti-hero in the story, because he refuses to buy into the notion of heroic struggle as a fine life. He sees only the misfortune that has befallen him from one battle to the next. But the story could very well have played out differently, with Joe buying into the notion of what a 'full' life is supposed to be.
I sometimes wonder to what extent human identities are often constructed from images more than feelings. In our walking meditation practice, we often instruct, "don't think about the body, directly experience it". Why is this instruction so important? I think that for myself, it takes me to a space where I am really with my feet, rather than thinking of something else. And I can feel my body rather than just picturing what my body looks like, what it is, or where it belongs. A very simple gesture like this can take a person to an acknowledgement of something beyond language and abstract ideas. It also creates a space where I am able to see that I am not my ideas, or in some thought arising there.
Maugham, W. Somerset, "French Joe", from Volume Four Collected Short Stories. London: Pan Books
Maugham's story, for me, represents the stark contrast between the 'exploits' of war that is often historically depicted, and the realities of hardship and suffering that really unfold for the central character. It also represents the transient, unreal nature of war: as sides switch, so do Joe's allegiances. I see a character trying to survive between conflicting sides. In the end, Joe expresses a wish to die, only to add that he would be grateful for a pack of cigarettes. The story for me is a commentary on how life itself can become disposable under the ravages of imprisonment, war, sickness and ageing.
As I read this story, my contemplation was around the way really felt experiences are often sacrificed for the image of what they are presumably supposed to look and feel like. For example, a person might show a scar to represent what had been inflicted upon them years ago, and yet forget how the pain really felt in that moment. Rather than directly recalling or apprehending how the pain truly felt, the scar becomes a symbol for strength or courage. Yet, in the process, the suffering itself often becomes muted or even denied. Death itself becomes transmuted into a national ideal: to kill or to die for glory becomes an idealized life, with little regard for the suffering it entails for all beings. Joe becomes a kind of anti-hero in the story, because he refuses to buy into the notion of heroic struggle as a fine life. He sees only the misfortune that has befallen him from one battle to the next. But the story could very well have played out differently, with Joe buying into the notion of what a 'full' life is supposed to be.
I sometimes wonder to what extent human identities are often constructed from images more than feelings. In our walking meditation practice, we often instruct, "don't think about the body, directly experience it". Why is this instruction so important? I think that for myself, it takes me to a space where I am really with my feet, rather than thinking of something else. And I can feel my body rather than just picturing what my body looks like, what it is, or where it belongs. A very simple gesture like this can take a person to an acknowledgement of something beyond language and abstract ideas. It also creates a space where I am able to see that I am not my ideas, or in some thought arising there.
Maugham, W. Somerset, "French Joe", from Volume Four Collected Short Stories. London: Pan Books
Friday, January 1, 2016
The Downside of Mystery
Today's winter walk along Bloor Street proves to be a restful respite from the New Year's celebrations. There is a kind of lull around the area, as lone pedestrians walk their shaggy dogs and take in the isolated flakes of snow around them. If I settle into this walk long enough, there is a sense of not having a personal agenda, but being freely able to engage with whatever is happening around the neighbourhood. But of course, even this sense of peace does not stay. Worries come up, concerns, and things that do need taking care of. Of course there are going to be thoughts, and they require care. But the space around the thoughts allows me to interact with them without getting obsessed or overly preoccupied in identifying with them. In the midst of this experience, I sense that there is something in the moment that cannot be defined or made into an object whatsoever. Yet, that space contains everything and freely allows concerns to be addressed. I consider this to be a kind of mystery.
I contrast this sense of mystery with a different kind, which often comes up in novels or other fictional forms. Rather than being about the mystery of awareness (the everyday), this 'other' mystery seems to be about trying to solve a problem or being allured by some detail. Here is an example I found from a short story by W. Somerset Maugham, called "The book bag", in which one of the characters, Featherstone, relates his fascination with another person:
It was strangely exciting to think that if she loved you, and you were married to her, you would at last pierce right into the hidden heart of that mystery; and you felt that if you could share that with her it would be as it were a consummation of all you'd ever desired in your life. Heaven wouldn't be in it, You know, I felt about it just like Bluebeard's wife about the forbidden chamber in the castle. Every room was open to me, but I should never rest till I had gone into that last one that was locked against me (p.26)
I think that Featherstone presents a striking metaphor for the never-ending pursuit of mystery, which is also embodied in the title of the story. It describes mystery as a kind of temptation: 'if only' it were pierced or penetrated, there would be a kind of final fulfilment of everything desired in life. But this mystery that Featherstone speaks of is also the mystery of the forbidden, the hidden , or the veiled. It is as though there is something out there that needs to be resolved before Featherstone can make peace with himself.
Reading this passage, I begin to wonder how often this can form the model for how people see relationships in general. Rather than seeing their moments as already complete, there is something in someone else that promises to "complete" a person. It's perhaps no accident that this short story ends in the tragedy of unrequited love. The ''mystery" that Featherstone speaks of is really the concealment of a dark secret in his beloved's heart, which in turn becomes his own obsession.
A question that comes to my mind is how Maugham's story of intrigue functions in his readers' minds. Just as Featherstone is fascinated by Olive, are readers not also drawn into the desire to know who Olive is? Do readers also become 'voyeurs' of sorts, wanting very much to continue to read in order to find out what happens, or whether the two get together or not? Why do readers come to this story, what are they looking for, and what sustains them in continuing to read? Maugham's story is also a meditation on why readers read, and what keeps them hooked on the power of words and images. Comparing the process of reading to a drug, Maugham's narrator remarks, "Let us admit that reading with us is just a drug that we cannot do without--who of this band does not know the restlessness that attacks him (sic) when he has been severed from reading too long..." (p.9)
I think Maugham's story serves on some level as a kind of cautionary tale about what happens when people get bogged down by their thoughts, and sense themselves as incomplete unless they can somehow 'finish' the thought with another. Just as the character in his story longs for the consummation of the mystery of beloved, so he also suffers from a romantic fixation on the mystery of someone else, which ends up being a fantasy in the end. But I also wonder if reading Maugham's tale is also not a catharsis for the reader, who is unable to get over the sense of wanting to figure out something in order to feel fulfilled.
Maugham, W. Somerset (1951), "the book bag", from Volume Four: Collected Short Stories. London: Pan Books
I contrast this sense of mystery with a different kind, which often comes up in novels or other fictional forms. Rather than being about the mystery of awareness (the everyday), this 'other' mystery seems to be about trying to solve a problem or being allured by some detail. Here is an example I found from a short story by W. Somerset Maugham, called "The book bag", in which one of the characters, Featherstone, relates his fascination with another person:
It was strangely exciting to think that if she loved you, and you were married to her, you would at last pierce right into the hidden heart of that mystery; and you felt that if you could share that with her it would be as it were a consummation of all you'd ever desired in your life. Heaven wouldn't be in it, You know, I felt about it just like Bluebeard's wife about the forbidden chamber in the castle. Every room was open to me, but I should never rest till I had gone into that last one that was locked against me (p.26)
I think that Featherstone presents a striking metaphor for the never-ending pursuit of mystery, which is also embodied in the title of the story. It describes mystery as a kind of temptation: 'if only' it were pierced or penetrated, there would be a kind of final fulfilment of everything desired in life. But this mystery that Featherstone speaks of is also the mystery of the forbidden, the hidden , or the veiled. It is as though there is something out there that needs to be resolved before Featherstone can make peace with himself.
Reading this passage, I begin to wonder how often this can form the model for how people see relationships in general. Rather than seeing their moments as already complete, there is something in someone else that promises to "complete" a person. It's perhaps no accident that this short story ends in the tragedy of unrequited love. The ''mystery" that Featherstone speaks of is really the concealment of a dark secret in his beloved's heart, which in turn becomes his own obsession.
A question that comes to my mind is how Maugham's story of intrigue functions in his readers' minds. Just as Featherstone is fascinated by Olive, are readers not also drawn into the desire to know who Olive is? Do readers also become 'voyeurs' of sorts, wanting very much to continue to read in order to find out what happens, or whether the two get together or not? Why do readers come to this story, what are they looking for, and what sustains them in continuing to read? Maugham's story is also a meditation on why readers read, and what keeps them hooked on the power of words and images. Comparing the process of reading to a drug, Maugham's narrator remarks, "Let us admit that reading with us is just a drug that we cannot do without--who of this band does not know the restlessness that attacks him (sic) when he has been severed from reading too long..." (p.9)
I think Maugham's story serves on some level as a kind of cautionary tale about what happens when people get bogged down by their thoughts, and sense themselves as incomplete unless they can somehow 'finish' the thought with another. Just as the character in his story longs for the consummation of the mystery of beloved, so he also suffers from a romantic fixation on the mystery of someone else, which ends up being a fantasy in the end. But I also wonder if reading Maugham's tale is also not a catharsis for the reader, who is unable to get over the sense of wanting to figure out something in order to feel fulfilled.
Maugham, W. Somerset (1951), "the book bag", from Volume Four: Collected Short Stories. London: Pan Books
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